mundie/script/cream cheese

may has so many deadlines, and things for my parents to approve, and job prospects, and writing shit i just  really want it to be over already.

but i got  20 something days left.....

here's a screenplay im gonna try and work on (notice i didn't say finish)

i want to cry because im 18 and treated like 5 but hey at least my allergies are back,  excuses for crying!!!

Trapped

Written By: Casey Bell

Introduction

NARRATOR: Have you ever fallen into a ditch or maybe your sister’s karate recital thing and not really wanted to get out? Well it’s a no-brainer for me—I mean it’s not that I don’t use my brain—I’m not sure if I should have any regrets about what happens is all.

FADE IN: NEIGHBORHOOD EXT.

NARRATOR: It’s like if I had a regret about being the egg that got fertilized by some sperm cell in my mothers uterus. What a lucky egg I am. Or if I regretted forcing down that 40 dollars too much meal only to shit it all out a few hours later. How in the great existence of christ, lead painted toys, and recalled spinach would anyone be grateful for falling into a trap?

Obviously this memoir of a sorts is meant for someone of less moral intention than I.

NARRATOR: Well now you may be accusing this string of happenings on some old tarot card reader, my mothball smelling chauffeur, or my teen angst disguised in a coming of age mission to find my freedom. I grew out of teen angst when I was ten. My chauffeur speaks Portuguese. And I haven’t stepped foot in a fortune teller’s room since five years ago when I was sent to talk about mommy’s late night habit.  Whatever this anthology is I really hope Ferdinand FKA short legged, long mustached, Abel doesn’t get his hands on it, because I can’t imagine the look on his face if he knew he was using me as much as I was using him.

What a great start I’ve made to this homemade journal that someone is supposed to find years after my death filled with vague statements and hyperbolic questions rather than closure of any sorts.

Le Premiere Act

NARRATOR: Okay I’m changing medium now, time for an influx of film strips from my pre-glory days featuring myself as an adolescent at the start of my life. (one of those clicky slide things with film pictures from her previous life aka childhood, also some old reels of film and stuff, also details of objects that are of great importance with some song like hinterland by icarus playing in the back..until it fades out to something more bland and monotone.)

MIRANDA: on December 20th 1997 I started being called Miranda and my financial forthcoming is not important to my story now but I’m sure you’re wondering (voice: goddam curiosity sass), anyways on the eve of my 18th birthday I received a (what do you call that money ppl leave for you?) generous sums of  “insert word”  from great aunt Sasha, the only real relationship I have ever had. I mean my aunt taught me how to run away to her house when my own parentals and atrocious excuses for ‘blood brothers/sisters’ were boring me into hell.

Well long story short some imbecile granted an alcoholic a fucking license and set of keys, and old aunty was melting on the sidewalk like the wicked witch of the west. So in return for this unfortunate series of events I said goodbye to my best friend without even opening my mouth. Her funeral is today and I already left that life behind. My friend Sam or my kind of girlfriend of two years hesitantly called me one day after she saw a creepy van with some arabian man who claimed he was the absolute next Houdini. To top it off, he looked like the kidnapped multiple people—as seen on channel 4— guy, but who can trust them anyways?

MIRANDA: Well I spent a few weeks scouting out this cry for help until I actually found the magic man in the ladies room at the rundown Wendy’s that everyone in my town deems a place for bums and blatantly poor people. However it’s interior proved that notion quite wrong. It was the day I skipped out on going to the place I sat for 8 hours a day practicing my intersectional feminist monologues on, you’d be surprised how many people took the puzzled look on their faces as an invitation to their haughty taughty prejudices about myself. Anyways, I guess the reason I was searching for this man, was a stupid yet well thought out one, because every night I ask the question why did I get the silver spoon? I like plastic spoons better anyways. Nobody in my life has ever seen a challenge except writing a paper about some dead white guys who thought their theories were the only importance in modern day education. I mean fuck, maybe it’s the fact that my siblings and I are adopted, or so okay we’re not, but my mom’s not my real mom, and I’ve never looked like my siblings in my life, except our huge nose property of our stock broker-only shows his face 2 times a year sperm donor. The only person I really connected with is my aunt Sasha, like me, she lacked the necessity for pretending to be someone she’s not, even though wealth claimed her name long before she could pronounce it. She worked until her nail beds became nonexistent, and she fished out and cleaned up the pregnant cat in the sewer by Mr. Montgomery’s Cleaners. To put it short, Sasha didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone, her life was superior above all and she needed nobody that is why I needed her.

MIRANDA: So what did I do? Well this wasn’t the original plan, but aunt sasha used to take me to gymnastics at the YMCA where her best friend’s daughter taught children. I was very flexible from the day I started and Christine would teach me synchronized swimming, ballet, and acrobatic moves. I felt that I was part of something when I went for these lessons, it was me and her, and my aunty sasha. No recitals for my parents to miss out on, no awards for my brothers and sisters to one up me on, no competitions or shows for anyone to drive me too, but it was mine. So yes I do have a talent, and ever since I started I wanted to join a circus. Not because of the lifestyle but because it was someplace that I would be capable of handling. I did not believe getting caught up in the life of a fucking rich kid would do anything for me.

Still MIRANDA: (getting more cynical as the story goes on) So I did what only made sense. I put ½ of my money in bonds and donated the rest to get rid of Drunk Drivers Association. As if that will bring any of the precious lives back. I gave the bonds to Christine to fund her studio where she would teach kids everything she taught me, she was so surprised she said ‘Sweetie, any second you would like this money back, I will gladly hand it over.’ That prompted me to shed thick tears like milk down my cheeks, and they were so concentrated they tasted like the sweat dripping from your face after a hard workout. I hadn’t let those things out in years. Then she hugged me for what seemed like years, the kind of hug that makes you realize you have people in this life who know you work hard, who know you matter. But still, she didn’t know exactly what I was up to.

SETTING: (in the rundown wendy's near her school with questioning smells coming from every crevice)

MIRANDA: There I was, standing in line for some greasy potato sticks that would enter my bloodstream right away and suffocate my clear as jellyfish arteries until I was met by some man in the clouds or better yet soiled flesh remains from 1979. But right when the man named Paul with green socks and purple pants on was called up for his order of mac and cheese bacon burger with fries and a double coke, I spotted a cheaply sewn on red jacket with bronze embroidery and I ran in after it.

The bathroom was eerie but I went in making my way through half dried hamburger barf and residue I think would take more than a century for any scientist to decipher. He stared at my face like I was some sort of relic, misinterpreted by all the rich people who had seen me traveling across each of their museums, and he dubbed me ‘Power Eyes,’ as he was washing his hands trying to smooth out his grizzly beard, and said, ‘you are my next act…who knew wendy’s would be the best decision I ever made.’ I took offense because who the fuck am I? An act? No um excuse me I am a human fucking being, stay in your lane, old man. But I didn’t dare say this because as romantic as it seemed, the stars were not aligning in a beautiful pattern, they were stranded and confused of their fate. With my worn out and stained since birth safety net left behind, I hopped into the black out window side of the cat food smelling van, because even on the verge of yet another existential crisis I was not going to have anything easily anymore and I think Auntie would be so proud of that.